


drawn with a team of little atomies

by Carmarthen



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo e Giulietta - Ama e Cambia il Mondo, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház), Szentivánéji álom | A Midsummer Night’s Dream - Szakcsi/Müller
Genre: 16th Century CE, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Crossover, Epilepsy, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, Forests, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Motherhood, Multi, Polyamory, Prompt Fic, Setting Swap, Snark, Truth or Dare, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Wingfic, selfcest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short prompt ficlets and drabbles based on various versions of <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>, primarily the various adaptations of the musical <i>Roméo et Juliette</i>, but who knows what will show up here eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Italian Mercutio/Tybalt, how Mercutio lost his sleeve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. How Italian Mercutio Lost His Sleeve (or: Tybalt eats sleeves, the fanfiction) for acaramelmacchiato
> 
> Thanks to vejii for suggesting the cut sleeve thing, which I promptly made ridiculous because come on, have you seen this musical? Title to come.

There were three hundred and eleven tiles on Tybalt’s ceiling.

Mercutio had counted them twice since Tybalt, reeking of wine, had passed out next to him. In doing so, he had effectively pinned Mercutio’s right sleeve, which he preferred to wear fashionably dangling from his doublet rather than encasing his arm, to the bed.

That particular sartorial choice had perhaps been Mercutio’s first mistake of the evening; the second, drinking with Tybalt; the third, going home with Tybalt; the fourth—

Well. Mercutio grimaced, unsure whether that could be properly categorized as a _mistake._

Next to him Tybalt shifted, muttering something in his sleep that seemed to contain the words “Giulietta,” “honor,” and “vulture.” Vultures apparently featured more heavily in Tybalt’s dreams than Mercutio would have expected.

He shuddered delicately, trying once more to ease his sleeve from under Tybalt’s sleeping form without waking him—God knew, the last thing he wanted to do now that he was sobering up was _talk_ to _Tybalt_ —before he finally gave up and reached for his dagger.

Mercutio allowed himself a single tear as he began to cut. The poor sleeve’s noble sacrifice would be remembered.


	2. (Italian Tybalt/Hungarian Tybalt, first kiss)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italian Tybalt and Hungarian Tybalt: a first kiss in a bar, for acaramelmacchiato.

"Please," Tybalt said, "as if _you’ve_ ever touched a woman.” He squinted at Tebaldo, who was glowering at him over his third or perhaps fourth cup of wine, like nothing so much as a battered alleycat bristling to seem fiercer. For all his bravado, the boy had a kind of innocence that was nothing but a distant, bitter memory for Tybalt. “As if you’ve ever touched _anyone._ You talk as much as Mercutio, and with less substance—”

Tebaldo’s weight in his lap, his legs lean and strong in scarlet leather against Tybalt’s thighs, his mouth warm and clumsy with wine, was enough of a shock that Tybalt forgot to reach for his dagger. He forgot to do anything but let Tebaldo kiss him, angry and sweet and unpracticed, as no one had ever kissed him before; he told himself it did not hurt.


	3. (Romeo/Julia, first kiss in wingverse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romeo and Julia kiss for the first time in [wingverse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/948810), for plinytheyounger.

Julia kisses with her eyes shut and her lips closed, soft and hesitant at first, her hands fluttering against Romeo’s neck like birds; her wings beat slowly behind her, in time with the throb of her heartbeat. The breeze stirs the fine hairs on the back of Romeo’s neck, and he shivers.

It is the most chaste kiss Romeo has ever had, and the sweetest.

"But your wings," he says breathlessly, when they part, tracing a finger gently down soft brown lark feathers. "Mercutio—"

She blushes—he is enchanted—and murmurs, “Your friend did not kiss my mouth.”


	4. (Romeo/Julia/Tybalt, first kiss in space AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romeo/Julia/Tybalt, a first kiss in a biopunk AU I haven't finished yet, so ehhhh, questionable characterization. For plinytheyounger.

From the doorway, Julia could not see Tybalt’s face, only the fall of his dark hair, thrust back carelessly behind his ears, and the tight hunch of his shoulders.

"I want to hate you," he was saying, voice low and rough, his fingers long and pale where they gripped Romeo’s shoulders, more like claws than hands. "I want to hate you so very _much_.” His voice broke on the last word, half a sob, and Romeo—her sweet, good Romeo—looked stricken to the core.

"I never meant to taken anything from you." He reached up to touch Tybalt’s face, and Tybalt flinched away.

"Oh, you _took_ nothing,” Tybalt said, “nothing that was ever mine to take—no-one who was ever mine to take. I only _want_ , and do not want to want. No, you are both happy. It is better if I go. Perhaps your cousin will take me somewhere, if I grovel sufficiently for his tastes; the galaxy is quite large.”

"Tybalt—"

Julia could not tell if he froze at Romeo’s hand grasping his wrist, or at the sight of her in the doorway. For a moment he looked pierced, struck to the heart by agony, his eyes wild; and then he wore again that remote marble mask. “Let me go.” His voice was steady—cold—as if nothing hurt him.

"No," Julia said, stepping closer. "Enough."

"Tybalt." Romeo’s voice was very soft, his face earnest; Julia loved him so very much, so much it almost hurt. "I love you better than you know."

Tybalt jerked as if struck; he slid slowly to his knees at the first press of Julia’s lips against his. It was if someone had deactivated him, flipped a switch to disable all his armor, all his sharp words, and left behind only her beloved cousin, who had always been her ally, her cousin who had saved her life only to hand her over to a husband, and never said anything of his heart—

—but no, he had, that night in the astronomy room, and she had not understood. _Maybe I can marry you._

_Don’t be ridiculous._

"I’m sorry I never saw," she whispered, against his mouth.

Would it have changed anything? Would it have stopped her from falling in love with Romeo? It did not matter; they had this now. Romeo’s hand was in hers, squeezing fiercely, reassurance and promise; there was a future for the three of them.

She could taste salt on Tybalt’s lips, desperate and fierce against hers, and then she could not say who kissed whom next.


	5. you'll find a happy life (Lady Capulet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Capulet finds motherhood slightly different from her expectations, but she can be patient. She is young, after all, and her husband loves her.

She expects to hate carrying a child: to hate becoming ungainly, looking in her mirror and seeing a stranger. She fears the aches and pains the older wives complain about ceaselessly at parties.

Instead the child growing within her belly lies lightly: her breasts become fuller, the sharp bones of her face pleasantly softened. At parties she pretends not to hear the other woman whisper envy for her glow, for the attentiveness of her husband—much older than her, twice-married and childless, smitten with his child-bride and her obvious fertility.

At night he kisses her belly and talks of what they will name the boy, of how they will take him to the country villa in the summers, away from the sickness that breeds in the city. He touches her with a new reverence and ardor—and for all that she has heard of young men, she supposes there is something to be said for experience, for patience. She is content enough in the dark.

In the light of day she is happy, standing at his side with her hands folded against her belly, feeling the babe kick inside her.

 _Too young to be a bride,_ she had overheard her nurse tell one of the other servants, with a disapproving click of her tongue, _too young to be a mother. A pity about my lord’s debts._

Now her old nurse’s disapproval makes her want to laugh, a girl’s bright, unrestrained laugh, unseemly for the wife of Lord Capulet. It is a laugh she hides away, conceals behind practiced smiles and modestly lowered lashes. It is far better to be a wife than a daughter, and it will be better yet to be the mother of the Capulet heir, a woman who will be heard when she speaks.

When the midwife tucks her daughter into her arms, washed and swaddled in clean linen, the pang of disappointment scarcely lasts a moment. She is only fifteen, after all, strong and healthy. The birth had been quick, and Lord Capulet is a kind husband. He will not be angry; he will love their daughter.

Next time there will be a son. She can be patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady Capulet's brittle desperation in "Holnap" really gets to me, particularly her insistence that Julia will be happy and protected once she has a son--what Lady Capulet herself could never do. Loose translation:
>
>>   
>  _Te lány! Tudod, a papa nagyon szeret!_   
>  _Figyelj! Párisz gróf megérdemli kezed!_   
>  _Hiszen oltalmat nyújt, te meg szülsz majd egy fiút!_   
>  _Boldog életre lelsz, csak ennyi kell ehhez!_
>> 
>> Daughter! You know Papa really loves you!  
> Listen! Count Paris deserves your hand!  
> Because it provides protection, you must give birth to a boy!  
> You'll find a happy life, if only you do this!


	6. (Roman AU Tybalt & Mercutio, only I can make an orgy this depressing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tiberius Antonius Capitus has possibly the worst orgy experience ever. Content warnings for non-graphically described epilepsy and canonical character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only I could make an orgy this depressing (I swear it wasn't my original plan), but at least no one [drank murdered gladiators' blood](http://mindhacks.com/2010/02/01/gladiators-blood-as-a-cure-for-epilepsy/)?

The din of drums and cymbals pounded through Tiberius’ skull, mingling with the sick feeling in his gut from the unwatered wine he had drunk earlier, sour and strong. He should not have taken the wine, he knew, but at the time it had seemed better than the prospect of watching his aunt fuck her way through half of Verona sober. Not to mention that refusing the sacred wine would likely have seen him torn limb from limb before the night was out.

A girl, barely older than his cousin Julia, sidled up to him, eyes wide and bright with the ecstasy of the god—or with drink, more likely—her breasts bared and her arms held out in welcome. Gold gleamed on her wrists, but her lips were stained red, red as kermes, red as wine, red as blood—

His head swam and the world tilted as he shoved her away, ignoring her cry, thin and shrill like a wounded bird. The incense smelled suddenly of decay, a sweet sense of rot that crept into his throat and threatened to choke him.

No—no, not here. Not _here._

He could not see the exit, stumbling maddened through the throng, pushing aside men and women alike without regard. He had to get out—they couldn’t see—

"Tiberius Antonius Capitus," drawled a familiar voice, accompanied by strong hands on his arms, steadying him. "I didn’t think you were a follower of Bacchus.”

Of _course._ Of course _he_ was here, with gold in his ears and kohl lining his eyes, a mocking smirk twisting his lips as he regarded Tiberius with the kind of look a man might give an especially pretty slave girl; he was the womanish kind of man who favored these rites, and the gods hated Tiberius. The falling sickness which barred him from the assembly was proof enough of that.

"Mercurinus," he gritted, trying to pull free. In his madness, he had been told, he had the strength of ten; but before it fully gripped him he always felt more like a kitten, baring useless claws.

It was odd, Tiberius thought vaguely, but he did not think he had ever seen Mercurinus’ face so clear of humor, those pale brows drawn up in something that almost looked like concern. “Are you…well?” Mercurinus’ voice sounded hollow, as if echoing from a great distance.

"Get me out," Tiberius heard himself say, past caring for the humiliation of begging his enemy for help. " _Please._ ”

* * *

He opened his eyes to shadow and blessed quiet, his throat dry and mouth sour. Already his head ached, warring with the thick lethargy that usually took him after. Praise the gods for a small mercy, he had not soiled himself this time, at least. It was not, under the circumstances, much of a mercy, but it was something.

In the distance he could still hear the throb of the drums, almost below hearing.

Mercurinus was watching him, pointed chin resting on his knees, his hair a banked flame in the dimness. He looked half-unreal there in the moonlight, like some spirit come down to earth; unaccustomed gravity rested well on him, made him look more like a man worthy of his name, like someone who could be trusted and called a friend.

Soon enough he would open his mouth and Tiberius would remember why he hated him.

His nails were digging into his palms, he realized, anticipating it. He was in even less mood to counter Mercurinus’ barbed tongue than usual, with the thick fog of sleeping dragging at him, binding his throat and slowing his thoughts.

"Hippocrates said the sacred disease was of no more divine origin than any other." Mercurinus’ voice was grave, not a flicker of mockery or disgust in it.

"Are you a physician now, then?" Tiberius coughed, weakly. 

Mercurinus gave a curious little half-shrug. “No, I merely pay attention to my studies on occasion—when there is nothing better to do. But it suits reason. Why should a most sacred god pollute the impure body of man? Hippocrates held that it was caused by an excess of phlegm.”

Tiberius coughed, weakly. “Tell that to the Senate. And to my uncle, who fears I will take a fit in the assembly and shame him before all.”

"I would," Mercurinus said, "if they would believe me."

Still he did not smile. It was harder to bear, this new kind of mockery, this pretense of sympathy. _Sympathy,_ as if Tiberius had ever asked to be pitied. As if he were someone to be pitied. “You will pardon me,” he said, “if _I_ do not believe you.”

At that Mercurinus did smile, a queer little thing with a glimmer of sadness in it. “Oh, Tiberius, I have never expected you to believe me about anything.” He stood, blocking the light, so Tiberius could not see his face. “Belief is not your sin, my dear; I will not insult you with promises. Will you be well?”

"As well as I ever am."

 _Well,_ ha. It would be all over Verona by midday tomorrow, this Tiberius knew: that the nephew of Sextus Julius Capitus was cursed by the gods, unfit for marriage or public life. That he could bear; he had known for years that they could not hide the disease forever. But then rumor would turn to Julia; the sickness ran in families sometimes, they said, and where the gods struck once they might strike again.

For her, for Julia, he might beg—save that he placed no value on any oath Mercurinus might give him.

Tiberius closed his eyes instead, and did not open them again until the footsteps faded into the distance.

* * *

He was still waiting for those damning words when Mercurinus drew a dagger on him in the public square at midsummer; words that never came, even when Mercurinus fell with blood staining his lips as crimson as those of the girl half a lifetime ago.


	7. (Tybalt and Julia play Truth or Dare, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There is nothing untoward in two cousins, too close for marriage even if Tybalt were not as he was, playing a harmless game. Nothing at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Cinaed, who asked for _Rómeó és Júlia_ and Truth or Dare.

"Dare," Tybalt says, because it’s been years since he’s trusted himself to lie convincingly, not to Julia, and years since he didn’t have to.

Julia pouts, wrapping herself tighter in her robe and tucking her feet under the hem. “You always say that.” Her mouth is soft and pink; her face no longer a child’s face despite its innocence. “It’s boring. I don’t have any ideas.”

Tybalt looks away, takes a slow breath while counting backwards from ten in his head. Does not dig his nails into his palms. There is nothing untoward in two cousins, too close for marriage even if he were not as he was, playing a harmless game. Nothing at all. “What would you have asked, cousin?”

"Oh," Julia says lightly, "nothing much. Mother has been going on about husbands again." She makes a face, this one much more familiar; the same face she had made as a child when they served tripe at dinner, or she was told it wasn’t proper to climb trees. "It’s all very tiresome. I don’t wish to marry yet. But she is always telling me about this one or that one, how large his estates, how charming his address—why, if _she_ could marry them herself—” She laughs, bright and free, and Tybalt thinks of her married to some oaf for his lands and title, thinks of her laugh grown brittle and sharp as her mother's, and hates the man already. “I should think it would be nicer to marry someone because you like him, but when I say that she only gives that funny laugh of hers and drinks more wine.”

He has just managed to truly relax, thinking himself safe, when her voice turns thoughtful; in her trusting moonlit gaze he sees pitfalls and danger.

"Tybalt, is there anyone _you_ want to marry?”

They are too old to play this game. He knows that now.


	8. (Tybalt and Mercutio encounter fairies, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The rustling grew louder, closer—something large, perhaps a boar or even a bear—and Tybalt raised his crossbow._
> 
> _But worse yet, it was Mercutio who stumbled into the clearing, his clothing torn and stained and half the buttons on his doublet missing, his hair tousled and bright in the shadow of the forest._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very small piece of an unwritten _Rómeó és Júlia/Szentivánéji álom_ crossover, wherein Tybalt and Mercutio get lost in fairy-ridden woods. As yet no appearance by Puck, but someone is watching in the shadows...

The forest here was different, not the gentle rolling hills and spreading oaks of the prince’s hunting grounds, but something older, darker. A dank mist had crept up while Tybalt had chased the white deer, twining between trees so tall their tops were lost in darkness, with only an occasional ray of sun piercing through to the mossy ground.

And now the deer was gone, and his horse was fled, and behind him the way was closed with vines that Tybalt swore had not been there five minutes past. No matter how hard he listened, he could not hear even the faintest echo of hunting horns or the bell of hounds, only the occasional low call of a bird, or the rustle of some animal in the brush.

The rustling grew louder, closer—something large, perhaps a boar or even a bear—and Tybalt raised his crossbow.

But worse yet, it was Mercutio who stumbled into the clearing, his clothing torn and stained and half the buttons on his doublet missing, his hair tousled and bright in the shadow of the forest.

"Oh," he said, "this forest _would_ bring me to _you._ Well, if you’re going to shoot me, do it now, or else put that away before someone gets hurt.”

Feeling both angry and confused, Tybalt put up his crossbow. “I thought you were a bear.” He meant _I wish you were a bear,_ because bears were easy. He knew what to do with bears. But Mercutio did not need to know that.

"Oh, sweet Tybalt," said Mercutio, slipping closer, too close—his lips almost against Tybalt’s ear, so that Tybalt had to brace himself not to flinch away, "there are worse things in this forest than bears, if you dare to look into the shadows."


	9. (Romeo and Mercutio bootlegging in the 1920s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Atov, who asked for bootlegging shenanigans in 1920s Verona.

Marco’s eyes widened as he looked around the room, the Cappellett toughs outside already forgotten. “Ronan,” he said, with unaccustomed sobriety, “did you consider before choosing _this_ cellar to nip into that perhaps showing your mother’s bootlegging warehouse to the police commissioner’s nephew was…impolitic?”

"Do you actually care?"

Marco really wished Ronan would direct that sweet boyish smile elsewhere, because down that path lay trouble. He looked at the rows of bottles instead. “Of course I care. I left my churchkey at home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, 'churchkey' for a bottle opener is an anachronism. Shhh.


	10. (Tybalt has flu, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For janeeyreofmanderley, who requested Tybalt with flu and Mercutio caring for him, and got Deadly Flu Pandemic.

"You’re not going to die," Mercutio said on the fourth day, when Tybalt could barely move for all the aching in his bones and blood would not stop leaking from his nose. "Haven’t you noticed? It takes the strongest. I shouldn’t think _you_ have anything to worry about.”

There was something brittle about his smile which took the sting from his words, and at any rate, Tybalt could not pretend he had ever been other than sickly.

"Did Julia and Romeo escape the city?" Tybalt managed to croak, too tired to take offense, or to bat away Mercutio’s hands when he blotted away some of the blood with the deftness of a nursemaid.

"Yes." Mercutio’s touch against his brow was blessedly cold, almost as much of a relief as the affirmation. "They’ll be fine. You’ll live to annoy me another day, with eight lives yet to spare. Go back to sleep.”

It was too much effort to argue.


	11. (Romeo and Mercutio, finishing each other's sentences)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For privatesnarker, Romeo finishing Mercutio's sentences. Ambiguous canon - could be _Rómeó és Júlia_ , could be Shakespeare...

Mercutio cracked open one bleary eye and then squeezed it shut again. “Be civilized, sweet Romeo, and go away; at least until the sun is past his zenith. Let me sleep. My wit is—”

"Dulled by wine?" Romeo asked, yanking the blanket off the bed. Mercutio did not even have the grace to blush, although he was stark naked and adorned with marks that were definitely not the kind of bruise gained in the fencing salle.

"— _worn out_ for the nonce.”


	12. (Les Misérables and Rómeó és Júlia setting swap)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For madame-le-maire, who asked for a setting swap between _Rómeó és Júlia_ and _Les Misérables_.

### I.

The Prince of Verona read through the neatly scribed report Captain Saviero sent, eleven and a half pages in the scribe’s smallest hand, the grievances numbered, and then read it again. Surely it must have cost him most of a week’s salary to have it written out; most unlike him!

_Thirdly: it is useless to have an edict against fighting in the streets if this edict is only enforced at whim, rendering said edict toothless against the wealthiest citizens of Verona…_

### II.

"I beg you, Marcel, my dearest friend, take this letter to Mademoiselle Juliette; only do not let her father or her cousin know, on your life."

So Romain, earnest, sweet Romain, who had not the common sense god gave a puppy, was still set on killing himself on the barricades, and why? It would change nothing. Tomorrow there would still be beggars in the street. But all Marcel’s arguments had not swayed him, nor had the fair Juliette’s, and so there was nothing to do but follow him there.

It would, at least, not be _boring._

He tipped his hat in a mocking half-bow and smiled through numb lips: Marcel, who would joke even unto his grave, they had called him at the Sorbonne, before he dropped out. “Then call me your Mercure and I will go.”


	13. (Tybalt/Peter UST, SF AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tybalt doesn't handle heat waves well (in SPACE). Peter is conflicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Capulets of my choice + fire/flames/excessive heat + subtle kindness for drcalvin.

The heat exchangers in the Capulet compound malfunctioned just before Midsummer, when the baking summer outside was at its peak. Probably the red grit that got into everything during the sandstorms, one of the engineers muttered to Peter, along with some choice words about people too cheap to upgrade to the latest tech. She was dusty red from head to foot, sweat cutting dark rivulets into her skin, and Peter didn’t envy her one bit, even if she was paid twice his salary and got off-planet leave every three years.

The doctors had ordered Master Tybalt to stay calm and rest, lest he aggravate his condition. The calm was a futile order; the closest Tybalt ever came to calm was brooding moodiness. The rest, Peter had been sent to enforce, since his mistress Nurse Angelica had gone up to the orbital station with young Mistress Julia and her lady mother until the exchangers were fixed. Tybalt was…between manservants, and so Peter drew the short straw.

It had taken some cajoling to persuade Tybalt to strip down—to be honest, Peter wished he could do the same, but it would be more than a little awkward to be wandering around Master Tybalt’s quarters in his skivvies. After some complaining, he had finally settled in bed with his face to the wall and a sheet barely draped over his hips, the curve of his back a long, pale stretch of skin punctuated with the bony knobs of his spine. Tybalt ought to eat more, Peter thought with a vague sense of worry, but he wasn’t paid enough to work miracles. Anyway, no one had much of an appetite in this heat.

Peter’s own shirt and trousers were soaked through and beginning to chafe; he’d just changed a few hours ago, and the dryers were running overtime. Nothing to do but live with it.

Over in the bed, Tybalt had turned over. One long leg was almost hanging off the mattress; the sheet threatened to slide off his hips. He’d flung one arm over his eyes. Peter looked away. It was so hot he couldn’t even tell if he was flushing. Master Tybalt was a vac train crash waiting to happen, weirdly attractive as he could be, and it felt wrong to be looking at him like that, when he was half-delirious from heat, even if the vulnerability was an illusion.

“Water.” Tybalt’s parched croak was weak compared to his usual bark, but no less imperious. “Ice water.” He licked his lips, and then added, almost inaudibly, “Please.” 

Peter shook his head, almost unable to believe his own ears. The heat really must be harder on Master Tybalt. But then, he had grown up mostly on the orbital station, in the cold sterility of space.

It was a relief to emerge into the corridor, which was both a couple degrees cooler and mercifully free of Tybalt’s presence. Ice was harder to come by, with most of the heat exchangers down, but Peter had his ways. Maybe he’d find some cloths to wet, too. A damp cold cloth or two; that would surely cool Tybalt down, poor fellow.


	14. (Tybalt/cat henchman H/C, Italian musical 'verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tybalt had many fine qualities. Skill with his fists was not among those qualities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For acaramelmacchiato: angry Italian Tybalt/Lionello, a fistfight, light T for UST and aftermath of violence. :D Contains h/c and a passing reference to Lord Capulet being abusive.

Tybalt had many fine qualities. He might be sulky, petulant, and melodramatic, but he bore a deep generosity towards those he loved, as Lionello’s own curious position in the Capulet household could attest. He was kind to animals and courteous to his aunt.

Skill with his fists was not among those qualities.

There was fresh water in the basin by the bed, and a basket of rags, because Lady Capulet understood all too well her nephew’s proclivities, both towards street brawls and insolence to his uncle.

“The thing I like about you, Lionello—Fuck, that stings!” Tybalt broke off with a gasp as Lionello dabbed at his split lip with a damp cloth. “—is that you don’t talk too much.” This was Tybalt’s idea of a witticism; Lionello preferred not to talk at all. Tybalt’s voice went up, mimicking his aunt’s concern: “’Oh, Tybalt, what happened? Shall I call a physician? Sit down here!’ Fussing over me like a nursemaid. What happened? It’s obvious: I got my ass kicked again, that’s what, because those Montague dogs hunt in packs like the cowards they are.”

His eye was beginning to purple, granting him an ugly squint. Lionello wet the cloth again and gentled his strokes further, wiping away dried blood from a scrape over Tybalt’s cheekbone as Tybalt closed his eyes and tilted his head back. His bruised mouth was set in a mutinous line, and Lionello wondered, not for the first time, what Tybalt would do if he leaned over and kissed him.

“If you’d been there we’d have beaten them,” Tybalt muttered, and Lionello froze. Tybalt was right, he should have been there. He’d failed, and Tybalt had been hurt again.

“Hey, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” Tybalt’s hand was warm against his cheek—probably smearing blood and dirt on it, but that would wash away—and he ruffled Lionello’s hair with his other hand. “I know you can’t always—I told you to stay behind, didn’t I?”

Lionello looked away, taking up Tybalt’s hands and wiping the blood and muck from them as well. His knuckles were scraped and reddened, and without thinking, he pressed his lips to them, as if in fealty.

Perhaps he imagined the sharp intake of breath—or it was only a twinge of pain. How many more bruises did Tybalt bear under his torn doublet and hose? He should have followed anyway.

“You can teach me,” Tybalt said after a moment, with a queer tremor in his voice. “You can teach me, can’t you?”


End file.
